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O! where the rofy-bofom'd Hours, Fair VENUS' train appear, Disclose the long-expecting flow'rs,

And wake the purple year!

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The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Refponfive to the cuckow's note,

The untaught harmony of Spring :
While, whifp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear, blue sky

Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches ftretch

A broader, browner fhade;

Where'er the rude and mofs-grown becch

O'er-canopies the glade :

Befide fome water's rufhy brink

With me the Muse shall fit, and think

a bank

O'ercanopy'd with lufcious woodbine.


Shakefp. Midf. Night's Dream.

(At eafe reclin'd ̧ in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the Great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care :
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
The bufy murmur glows!
The infect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honey'd spring,

And float amid the liquid noon
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some fhew their gayly-gilded trim.
Quick-glancing to the fun t

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**" Nare per æftatem liquidam




Virgil. Georg. lib. 4.


fporting with quick glance Shew to the fun their wav'd coats dropt with gold. Milton's Paradife Loft, book 7.

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